


Shining across this dark highway

by Ferrera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dysfunctional Family, I'm not even gonna tag them individually, M/M, Pining Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s02e12 Nightshifter, Season/Series 02, dean's issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: After failing to save seven people in a span of only two months, Dean can't ignore the warnings John uttered on his deathbed anymore. As he tries to figure out what the hell his dad meant, it becomes harder and harder to bury certain events from the past.





	Shining across this dark highway

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little bit of an experiment for me, in the sense that there's way more plot and less porn than in my other work. Massive thanks to [writinginthesecrettrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinginthesecrettrees) for beta reading this and answering all my questions <3
> 
> Title - again - from My Father's House by Bruce Springsteen.
> 
> Please mind the tags. Set after 2x12 Nightshifter.

  
They’d left Milwaukee in the early morning, the sun rising behind them as they’d driven out of the city. They hadn’t stopped until they’d made it to southern Illinois. Dean had parked the car near a quiet forest, and only then they’d taken the time to get out of their stolen SWAT uniforms and change back into their own clothes. They hadn’t slept at all, spending the whole night inside that damn bank, so they’d made themselves more or less comfortable in the car, trying to get some sleep before hitting the road again.

They’d been driving for about eight hours since their break in southern Illinois, only stopped once near Jackson, Tennessee for gas and food. They’d left Milwaukee without a plan on where to go. Sam had suggested going back to Bobby’s, but Sioux Falls was the last damn place Dean wanted to go. Instead, he’d insisted on moving down south, and Sam had agreed— Dean was sure he’d have agreed on pretty much anything, as long as they’d get as far away from Milwaukee as possible.

About an hour ago, when they’d crossed the border to Louisiana, Sam had noted that they couldn’t go south much further, suggested that they find a place to crash. Dean had brushed him off, wanting to keep driving.

“We should find a motel for the night,” Sam says again now, sounding slightly more annoyed than before. 

“You can sleep in the car if you’re tired,” Dean tells him, not taking his eyes off the road. 

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam says, sighing. “You’re the one who needs to get some shut-eye. You’ve been driving all day, man.” 

“I’m fine,” Dean insists. Back when it had been just him and Dad, they used to drive for miles and miles on end, only ever stopping for food, gas or a toilet break. If Dad got too tired to keep his eyes open, Dean would continue, driving until Dad had gotten some sleep and insisted on taking over the wheel again. 

“Look, I know all you want is to keep driving,” Sam says, sounding more concerned than pissed now, “put Milwaukee and Sioux Falls behind you, never look back, eating miles so you don’t have to think about the shit we’re in or about Dad—” 

“Sam, it’s not about—” 

“But we’ve been driving for over fifteen hours since we got out of Milwaukee and after last night, you need to get some proper sleep, man. You barely know where we are, let alone where we’re going.” 

That’s not true. They might not have discussed a plan other than ‘down south’, haven’t looked for a new case yet, but Dean’s well aware of where they are. Knows where they’re heading, too. 

“It’s another fifty miles to Jeanerette,” he says, eyes straight ahead. 

“Jeanerette,” Sam repeats, sounding incredulous. “Why on earth stop there?” 

“Because _you_ just said you wanted to find a place to crash, that’s why, dammit.” 

Sam bites out a _fine, whatever_ and drops it, then, giving in more easily than Dean expected. They stop again near Lafayette for a couple sandwiches, some pie for Dean, and a six-pack for when they get to the motel, then drive the last forty miles to Jeanerette in silence. 

As soon as Dean has parked the car at the motel, he orders Sam to throw away all the trash they’ve collected in the back seat during their trip and to get their bags from the trunk while he goes inside to ask for a room. 

“The room on the far end, first floor, that one still available?” 

The clerk hums _sure_ and _if you insist, view’s better on the second floor though_ , but Dean just scribbles down his credit card details and takes the keys. He walks back to the car, takes one bag from Sam and makes sure to grab the six-pack from the backseat. 

Jeanerette offers a welcoming quietness after all the commotion last night. The parking lot’s desolate, just a couple other cars beside the Impala. Earlier today, wherever they stopped, Dean had been wary, feeling exposed, as if he was being watched. Darkness has settled now, offering him some anonymity. The chances that anyone here has seen him on the evening news or on a goddamn wanted poster already are extremely small, anyway, and he’s finally able to shake the restless feeling he’d carried with him all day a bit, but it isn’t until he steps into their room that he lets out a relieved sigh. 

“We’ve been here before,” Sam states as soon as Dean turns on the lights, eyes screening the room. 

“Have we?” Dean asks, off-handed, pushing past Sam as he makes his way over to a chair by the window. He drops his duffle on the chair, only then taking his time to look around. Sand-colored carpet, wallpaper that must once have been white. Brown-ish curtains, a little kitchenette with a table that’s barely big enough for two people to have breakfast at. Nothing that really stands out, except maybe the two singles that are pushed together, nightstands on either side of them, not in between the beds like in most motel rooms they’ve stayed in. 

“This exact room,” Sam says, looking a bit pained as his eyes glide over the ugly-ass wallpaper, down to the beds. 

“That’s why it looks kinda familiar to me, then.” Dean shrugs off Dad’s leather jacket, hangs it over the chair. When he looks back at Sam, still standing in the doorway, his brother is giving him a weird look. 

“Problem?” Dean asks as he opens his duffle, rummages around for the salt. Sam sighs, shakes his head, then finally closes the door. 

“You were the one who didn’t wanna sleep in the car,” Dean remarks while Sam walks over to/into the kitchenette and drops his duffle on the little table. Sam snorts as he takes off his jacket, then hangs it over the back of one of the chairs. Dean watches as he toes off his shoes and unbuttons his flannel. 

“Whatever,” Sam says as he shrugs his flannel off, “I’m gonna take a shower.” He pulls his undershirt over his head, revealing his broad chest and flat stomach. Even after hunting with Sam for over a year, seeing him almost every day, it still doesn’t fail to amaze Dean just how freaking big his little brother has gotten. He’s nothing like the skinny teen he’d been when Dad had first taken them this far down south, nothing like the boy Dean was fairly sure they left behind. 

Sam unbuckles his belt, big hands making quick work of the button and zipper of his jeans. He slides his jeans down his legs and steps out of them, drapes them on top of his jacket. He’s disappeared into the bathroom before Dean finds his voice back and manages to tell him not to use up all the hot water. 

Dean takes one beer from the six-pack, puts the rest of the cans in the small fridge. He’s drained his beer before he’s even finished salting the doors and windows. He tries to close the curtains properly, even though he knows it’s in vain, either a broad stripe of light from outside shining through in the middle, or two smaller stripes seeping past the edges. After checking the locks on the door, he sits down on the far bed, looks around the room. 

Ten years. Almost ten goddamn years, and nothing’s changed. 

That little kitchenette where Dean used to make breakfast for three and lunch and dinner for two. The couch Dad would sleep on when he came back late at night and Sam and he had already made themselves comfortable in the singles. The goddamn curtains that still don’t close properly. 

He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, feeling restless and itchy once again, in need of a shower too. He wants to grab another beer from the fridge, but he doesn’t need Sam to comment on his drinking behavior. Instead, he flicks on some porn, waits for Sam to finish showering. 

He’s not even watching, really, just staring at the screen mindlessly when Sam emerges from the bathroom and comments, “Thought the whole school girl thing didn’t do it for you anymore.” 

He smiles wickedly when Dean looks up at him, a smug _gotcha_ grin, but it disappears when he seems to realize Dean truly wasn’t paying attention. 

“Lost in thoughts?” he asks, careful, maybe a little hesitant to bring up Dad again. 

Dean watches his brother. His tall body is still looking slightly damp, drops of water from his wet hair falling down on his broad shoulders and chest. He’s so much taller than the last time Dean saw him emerging from that bathroom. He’d only been thirteen years old back then, still thin as a stick, all lanky limbs. He’d worn his towel like a girl would, like a tight little dress, covering his upper body, his skinny, smooth legs clearly visible. 

They’ve got new towels now. Might be the only thing that has changed in this damn room. Sam’s wearing one around his hips, slung low, showing off his muscular chest, slim waist and the sharp V of his hips instead of baby smooth thighs. Dean’s stomach tightens nonetheless. 

“At least they’ve got new towels,” Sam remarks, watching Dean watching him. 

“Do they?” Dean mumbles, averting his eyes. He reaches down to unlace his boots while Sam walks over to the table, grabs clean clothes from his duffle. Dean kicks his boots off, quickly pulls his flannel, undershirt and jeans off, then escapes into the bathroom. 

The towels truly are the only freaking change. The door still doesn’t lock and the mirror above the sink still shows a couple cracks. Dean stands in front of the sink, runs the tap. He grabs the plastic cup from the self above the sink, fills it with ice cold water, drains it before looking back up into the mirror. There are bags under his eyes and his skin looks pale and dull. Probably ain’t just the light. The last couple of months have been exhausting. They’ve been working case after case, but despite their efforts, the number of people they couldn’t save is adding up fast. Duane Tanner’s mom and that nurse in River Grove. Ava’s fiancé. Three people at the Pierpont Inn before Maggie’s spirit found peace. And last night, Ron. 

_You_ _can’t save everyone_ , he’d told Sam when his brother had been piss drunk and miserable after that man at the Pierpont Inn was found hanging from the fan in his room. It’s a harsh truth. By now Dean knows better than to let the deaths of all the people they couldn’t save get to him, knows better than to dwell on the pain of the loved ones left behind, but it’s a constant reminder of how he’s lacking, every person he fails to save a reminder that that he might not be able to save the only person that truly matters. How much longer can he save Sam? How many times before he’ll fuck up? Three fucking times he’d nearly lost him over the past few weeks. Sarge’s words still echo through his head in those quiet moments when he can’t keep his mind from wandering back. _Look, I understand he’s your brother, and I’m sorry, I am. But I gotta take care of this—_

He doesn’t even have to close his eyes to recall the determined look on Sarge’s face, to see him reaching for his gun, pointing it at Sam. Then Gordon. He’d managed to keep that son of a bitch from shooting Sam when he’d been with Ava, but he’d been completely useless when Sam almost walked into Gordon’s trap. He still feels sick at the thought, still sees it all clear in his mind, the explosions, the thick smoke, plaster falling off the ceiling, pieces of wood scattered all over the place— he’d been sure he’d lost Sam. 

It seems inevitable that he will lose Sam, one way or another. 

_The more people I can save, the more I can change._

Dad hadn’t sounded like he had much hope left for Sam. Something’s not right about Sam, and Dad had known. He’d seemed sure that Sam was unclean, tainted, somehow, and that Dean was the only one who could prevent him from… from _what_ , even? 

He has to force himself not to look away from the sight in the mirror. _Don’t lie to yourself, you know what he meant. There’s a darkness inside Sam and you know it. You’ve seen it before._

Dad’s words echo through his head again— _Watch out for Sam, take care of him. You have to save him, Dean. And if you can’t_ — 

It’s the one order he could never take from Dad, and Dad oughta know it. 

He can’t lose Sam. He needs to stay sharp, focused, especially now that there might be other hunters after Sam. He can’t fuck up. Anxiety rises in his chest at the thought of not being able to save Sam, in whichever way, locking up his throat, making him break out in a sweat. He grips the edge of the sink, muscles tensing in his arms and shoulders. There’s only one person who can save Sam, Dean tells his reflection, but the guy staring back is doing a piss poor job at saving people recently. 

He takes a couple deep breaths, trying to get rid of the restlessness and anxiety running through his body. It’s not fucking helping. He’s itching to slam his fist into the mirror, the sight so fucking tempting, but he knows Sam will come running in as soon as he’ll hear the glass shatter. Instead, Dean rams his knuckles into the sink once, not quite as hard as he can, but hard enough for it to hurt, hard enough for Sam to hear and shout _what_ _was_ _that?_

He doesn’t come in, though, and Dean lets out a sigh. He doesn’t feel much calmer, wants to slam his fist into the porcelain again, harder, not holding back, but he knows it won’t do any good. He’s got to get a fucking grip on himself. He turns away from the mirror, takes off his socks and boxers, gets into the shower. He washes himself quickly, efficiently, not wanting to think about Sam’s freaking _destiny_ or about losing him any longer. He’s aching for silence in his head, doesn’t want to hear Dad’s vague warnings and Sam’s desperate pleas taking turns. 

He’s starting to regret driving here tonight, should’ve at least waited until tomorrow, dammit. Sam was right, of course— after the past weeks, and especially last night, they need to get some proper sleep, and he’s not gonna get it in this damn room, where every little memory sets off a flood of thoughts in his head. 

When he emerges from the bathroom, Sam’s lying on the bed in his boxers and a shirt, head propped up on his pillow. He’s got a beer in his hand, the remaining four cans on the nightstand. He’s still watching the damn porn channel as if it’s some kind of National Geographic documentary. 

Dean walks over to where he’d dumped his duffle in a chair, digs around until he’s found clean boxers and a shirt to sleep in. He hangs his damp towel on the chair to dry and quickly puts on his clothes. He gets another pillow from the shelf by the door, then makes himself comfortable on the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. 

Sam hands him a beer without taking his eyes off the screen. Dean mutters a thanks, cracks it opens. On screen, the girl is straddling the guy’s lap, his big hands sliding up her skinny thighs, kneading the pale flesh. Dean takes a swig from his beer, watches as she rubs her little, supple body up against him. Then the viewpoint switches and the guy’s shown from the back, the girl’s arms tight around his neck as she grinds down on his lap feverishly, begging for him to touch her. 

“You really wanna keep watchin’ this?” Dean asks incredulously. He sneaks a quick look at his brother’s crotch, but there’s no sign that he’s very caught up in it. 

Sam looks over at him, raises an eyebrow. “What, are you telling me you don’t?” 

Dean averts his eyes, takes another swig of beer. The girl is sinking down on the guy’s dick now, hands tight on his shoulders, whimpering as she’s filled up slowly. The desperate mewling and moaning becomes louder as she starts to ride him, filling the motel room, making him cringe. 

“Can’t we just— I dunno, watch a movie or somethin’?” 

Sam snorts, then grabs the remote and switches channels. “Sure, man,” he says, shooting him another look. _You sure you’re okay?_ must be on the tip of his tongue, but he settles on a horror movie they’ve definitely seen before without commenting further. 

Dean relaxes marginally into the pillows. He takes another swig from his beer, rests the can on his thigh, the aluminum cool and wet against his too-hot skin. He flicks off the overhead light, switches on his bedside lamp instead, feeling slightly more comfortable in the dim light. 

Sam seems absorbed into the movie soon enough, and Dean tries to concentrate on it, too, but his mind keeps wandering back, unlocking one memory after another with keys Dean thought he’d put away. Sam’s pleas to kill him if necessary while he’d been drunk off his ass. The miserable look in his eyes as he clutched his hands in the lapels of Dean’s jacket. Pushing Sam down on the bed after making him a promise he’d never keep. The way Sam went along after that, his tall body looking so pliable, so inviting as he turned on his stomach, hugging the pillow. How Dean, despite everything, had felt his stomach clench at the sight of his brother sprawled out on the bed. How much he looked like the needy little kid Dean had pushed away all those years ago, back when he still thought he knew better. Sammy becoming more and more distant after Dean had bitten out _you’re sick, Sammy_ that night, and Dean telling himself that that was probably a good thing. Sitting next to each other in the backseat of the car while driving down south, trapped, forced to keep close, but feeling as if they were drifting further and further apart with each mile they put behind them. Endless highways, asphalt heated by the scorching sun during the day, lit by the moon and stars at night. 

_Welcome to Jeanerette, Sugar City._ Sammy looking like he fit right in, a doe-eyed little kid, wearing pastel-colored shorts and tank tops in the summer heat, showing off all that smooth, tanned skin, not quite as dark as caramel but looking just as sweet to Dean, his hair a mess of sun-kissed, honey-colored strands. How that innocent-little-kid look turned out to be just a façade, misleading everyone around them while Dean kept getting more and more glimpses of the messed-up boy with the twisted mind behind it. How he couldn’t be in one room with Sam and Dad, the growing tension between them making him feel like he was about to climb the walls. How Sam kept pulling away from him during their stay in Jeanerette, until Dean barely recognized him at all. 

“Dean?” 

Dean startles, looks up at his brother, who’s studying him with slightly concerned eyes. 

“You want another one,” Sam says slowly, like he’s repeating himself, nodding towards the space between them where Dean’s empty beer can has slipped out of his hand. Dean nods, a little bewildered, and Sam reaches over to grab another beer from the bedside table, offers it to Dean. It takes Dean a fraction of a second too long to grab the can from Sam’s hand, still feeling a little lost, a little caught up in all the thoughts in his head, and Sam asks, “Dude, you okay?” eyebrows furrowed, a concerned look in his eyes. _Who are you, my mom?_ is on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but that’s never really been funny.

“I’m okay,” he says, trying to shrug it off, “‘s just been a long day, and the thing with Ron, y’know,” but Sam’s eyes are not leaving his. 

“Should’ve stopped earlier,” Sam says again, but there’s no I-told-you-so in it, his voice quiet, soft. 

“I don’t mind drivin’,” Dean mutters, “I’m used to that,” but Sam purses his lips, shakes his head. 

“Why did we drive here, Dean?” 

Dean clenches his jaw, briefly closes his eyes, trying to pull himself together. He’s not fucking ready for this. For all the thinking he’d been doing in the car, the lack of a smart answer, a way to make Sam spill his guts, is astounding. 

“You wanted to find a place for the night,” he says again, at a loss, but Sam isn’t buying it, shakes his head as he keeps looking Dean straight in the eyes. 

“Why are we here, Dean?” he repeats, pushing now, his voice lower, more demanding. “Why Jeanerette?” 

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean snaps, “I just wanted to get as far away from Milwaukee as possible, alright, and you know goin’ back to Sioux Falls wasn’t an option for me. I can’t fucking be there without constantly being reminded of Dad.” 

“If Sioux Falls wasn’t an option, then why the hell is this?” Sam retorts, gesturing around the damn room. “It sure looks like we’re following Dad’s tracks, Dean.” 

Dean grits his teeth. He finally cracks his beer open and takes a long swig, buying time. 

“Did you wanna go back here because we stayed here with him during that one quiet summer? Does this place remind you of him?” 

Dean rubs a hand across his face, takes another swig. Sam’s not taking his eyes off him, waiting.

God, he feels so out of it. How the hell did _he_ end up being questioned? He can’t focus at all, his mind a mess. 

“Maybe,” he says. “I don’t know, man, I guess I just wanted to find some peace and quiet after the last couple of weeks, and it used to be pretty sedate here back—” 

“So you _do_ remember staying here. Then why the hell are you acting as if you don’t?” 

“Goddammit, Sam, why does it matter?” he snaps. “Yeah, I remember we stayed here with Dad that one summer a million years ago. Yeah, maybe this place reminds me of him a little. Will you shut up about it? We’ll leave tomorrow morning, okay, first thing.” 

Somehow, he thought being here, in this room, would make it easier to bring up the past. Thought that even if he couldn’t find the words, at least he could get Sam to talk. He lets his head fall back against the headboard, closing his eyes. Sam’s silent for a while, seemingly taken aback a little by his outburst. Dean hears him cracking open another beer and taking a couple swigs before he places it back down on the nightstand. When Dean opens his eyes, Sam sits up, facing him properly. His eyes are not as harsh as Dean expected them to be. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” he says, his voice soft, and fuck, if Sam’s pity isn’t the last thing he needs. “I think we should take some time off, man, just take it easy. Burying ourselves in cases isn’t gonna help us getting over Dad’s death. Look at you, man. You’re barely holding it together. We should take the week off, recharge.” 

God, sometimes he truly surprises Dean. For how much he sees himself as the one with the people skills, he’s being incredibly ignorant. For starters, this ain’t about Dad’s death or about how well Dean’s dealing with it. And if he still thinks he’ll get Dean to mourn in a way he thinks would be best for Dean, after all the fights they’d had over that, he’s out of his freaking mind. Christ, he might as well suggest going back to some diners or libraries or any other shithole they’d been to with Dad to bring back memories or some crap. 

“What the hell, Sam,” he bites out, “I thought we were done with all the goddamn conversations about dealing with Dad’s death. Stop fucking telling me what I should or shouldn’t do to get over it. There’s no getting over it, Sam, not for me. I hunted with him since I was, what, thirteen yeas old? I’m driving his car, I’m using his damn weapons. Pretty much everything I know about hunting, about the creatures out there, I learned from him. Every case I’ll take on, everything I’ll do will always remind me of him. If you wanna take a goddamn vacation to get over his death and then go on like it’s all sorted, fine, go ahead. But I can’t just take a damn break to freakin’ talk about it or some shit and then move on.” 

“That’s not what I meant, Dean,” Sam says quietly. He looks sad, maybe a little hurt, even. Serves him right. 

“I’m not telling you how you gotta cope with Dad’s death,” he continues in his goddamn I-might-be-your-little-brother-but-I-still-know what’s-best-for-you voice. “I’m just saying that taking on pretty much every case we’ve come across since his death has been wearing us out. And last night at the bank—” he stops, purses his lips. “They’re gonna be looking for you, man. We gotta lay low, recharge. I need you to stay sharp, Dean. You gotta slow down, before you fuck up and get yourself in jail or worse.” 

Yeah, like Dean hadn’t figured that out. Way to rub in how much of a fucking failure he is these days. Sam’s right, of fucking course he is, but all he does is press Dean’s buttons, spiking the anger and frustration he’d felt when he’d been looking in the mirror earlier. It’s not intentional, that much Dean can tell, Sam’s not looking to start a fight, but Dean is, now, aching to get rid of all the restlessness and frustration. 

“What the hell do you want, then? Spend the next week in this shithole of a room, talking about our feelings, reminiscing about Dad? Write in your diary about how much you miss Dad, after spending half your life picking fights with him? Tell me, Sammy.” 

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam snaps, eyes narrowing. “Don’t fucking act as if I’ve got no right to mourn over his death. I lost my dad too, Dean. And I loved him, too, no matter what you might think.” Sam grits his teeth, jaw clenching. “I know I said I hated him more times than I can count, and I used to be mad at him for dragging us across the country, for not providing us a home, for not supporting me when I wanted to go to Stanford, but despite everything, I loved him too, Dean.” 

“You left us,” Dean spits out. “I hunted with Dad for four years, and you were gone, Sam. You had no intention of coming back. You didn’t even fucking care that he went missing. You only came with me because Jessica burned.” 

He knows it’s a low blow, but frankly, he doesn’t give a fuck right now. They’ve been hunting together for over a year now, just like Dean always wanted, but mentally they’ll forever be miles and miles apart. Hunting with Sam by his side is the closest he’ll get to being happy. For Sam, it’s probably not even second best. 

Sam’s quiet, not even denying it. Doesn’t even tell him not to bring up Jess again. 

“You didn’t care about Dad,” Dean bites out. _You didn’t care about me. And who’s to blame for that, huh, Dean? Who told Sam he was sick, told him how much of a freak he was? Who pushed him away because of that? Who pushed him away because he was too damn scared to find Sam’s feelings in himself if he’d look too closely?_

Sam’s silently shaking his head. He’s still not looking at Dean, eyes cast down, focused on his amulet. 

_Dad lied to me. I want you to have it._

God, it’s not like Dean’s so much more worthy of wearing it. Ever since their mom died, they’ve been a goddamn dysfunctional mess of a family, nothing but harsh words, lies and secrets between them. 

“Dean,” Sam says eventually, eyes still focused on the amulet, “can’t you just accept that Dad meant different things to us? That maybe we loved him in different ways? He wasn’t the same dad for both of us, Dean.” 

It’s easy for Sam to say. If Dad was a proper dad to either of them, it was to Sam. Dean takes a last, hard to swallow swig of his beer. 

“I mean,” Sam continues, “I know I didn’t share as much with him as you did. I know he wanted me to be more like you. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him.” He pauses, looking up at Dean. “Maybe I didn’t love him as much as you did. He raised us in different ways, Dean. Maybe we loved him in different ways, too. I know he was more of a dad to me than to you, and I know how bad you wanted him to be more of a dad to you, too—” 

“Shut up, Sam,” he snaps, crushing his empty beer can in his hand. “Don’t fucking act as if I’m jealous or somethin’. I didn’t need him to teach me how to play catch or go fishin’ with me or some crap, whatever normal fathers and sons do. I didn’t fucking need him to read me bedtime stories and tell me that monsters weren’t real before putting me to bed. I didn’t need him to patch up every single little cut after a hunt, I didn’t need him to go soft on me. Maybe he hardly said out loud that he loved me, but I wasn’t so fucking desperate that I needed him to pull me into his lap and begged for his hands all over me.” 

Everything goes quiet except for the blood rushing in his ears. Sam’s staring at him, wide-eyed, mouth gaping open a little, and Dean can _see_ everything finally falling into place in his head. 

“You know,” Sam states quietly. The light from the street lamps and neon signs outside falls through the gap between the curtains, reaching Sam’s bed. His face looks pale in the dim light, his jaw clenched tight, lips looking thinner than ever. “You knew all along. You drove us here because you— You’ve been trying to get me to spill, huh.” 

Dean stays silent. Sam has his answer already, figured it out himself. Dean watches the muscles in his throat work as he swallows hard. He looks away, staring past Dean. He’s rubbing the palm of his left hand over his wrist. He finally got rid of the cast a couple days ago. Now he’s no longer got something to mess with when he’s nervous or tense. When he looks back up at Dean, his expression hardens, eyes narrowing. 

“What the hell do you want me to say, Dean?” 

“How about you give me a fucking explanation?” 

Sam snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“You have no clue what happened, Dean. How do you even—” He cuts himself off, rubs a hand over his face. “Tell me what you know, Dean.” 

He’d meant to talk to Dad. He wasn’t gonna accuse him of anything, he just— he was worried about Sam, needed to know what was going on. But he just— he just couldn’t bring it up to Dad, could never find the words. He never really learned to voice his concerns, his doubts. Never learned to voice agony or despair, his fear or frustrations. Dad taught him well. _Have you got your knife, Dean? Good, that’ll do._

“You drove us here. Now tell me what you know, Dean.” 

There’s barely any emotion sounding though in Sam’s voice and his face looks perfectly placid, but he can’t be unfazed. 

He could never bring it up to Sam either, not after what happened a couple months earlier. He couldn’t risk pushing Sam even further away. _Yeah, tell yourself that. You were too much of a coward to talk to him. Always burying everything, your worries, your insecurities, your feelings. And now Dad’s dead, and you still don’t have any answers. Hell, he only left you with more questions_. 

“Dean,” Sam says quietly. He sounds calm, way more composed than Dean is feeling. He’s patient, waiting for Dean. 

If they bury this now, there’s no way Dean can ever bring it up again. 

“I remember you,” he manages, voice sounding a little raspy, a little unsteady. His mouth’s dry and he’s desperate for another beer, or preferably something stronger. He’s still clenching his crushed beer can tight in his hand, has to force himself to loosen his grip, relax a little. “I remember it was scorching hot all summer, and you were walking around half naked the whole damn time. You’d wear this tank top with the collar so stretched out it slipped off your shoulder whenever you moved. You wore gym shorts that were just as short as the daisy dukes all the girls in town wore. Dad told you you looked like a fucking skank, and you didn’t even fight him over it, you just smiled at him.” 

Memories are easier to voice than feelings. They’re all crystal clear in his head, and he doesn’t lack the words to describe them. Once he gets going, there’s no stopping them, the words just spilling out of him. 

“You were sitting on the couch and you just fucking _smiled_ at him and spread your legs wider. You and him were arguing all the damn time, but whenever he commented on your clothes or your hair, you just— I sat there, by the table, cleaning the damn guns, and you and him were staring at each other as if I wasn’t even there. I remember Dad running a hand through your hair at the breakfast table, telling you to get a damn haircut, and instead of telling him to mind his own business and swatting his hand away like I was sure you would, you just let him, even leaned into his touch. I remember us swimming in the pool, and Dad coming to check on us. You climbed out, dripping wet, shaking the water out of your hair so you’d get his clothes wet, and Dad just laughed. I remember you grabbing his wrist, tugging him towards the pool, but Dad was way stronger and pulled on your arm, tugged you towards him and held you around your waist, and you didn’t even try to get away, you just clung to him until he pushed you back into the water.” 

He closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath, then looks back up at Sam. 

“I remember leaving that one night to hook up with a girl I’d met earlier that week. I remember coming back early, and wishing that I’d never left.” 

“You saw,” Sam says eventually, so quiet Dean barely hears him over the sound of his heart beating in his throat. 

“You saw,” Sam repeats, louder, and Dean can only nod. Sam looks away, his eyes finding the gap between the curtains where the light from outside spills through. 

“Tell me what you saw, Dean.”  


**Author's Note:**

> I kinda feel like I'm going out on a limb here 'cause this is definitely more of a character study than what I usually write. I hope I managed to get into Dean's head. Also, if bits and pieces of this seemed familiar to some of ya, please let me know ;) 
> 
> I can't make any promises on when I'll update this-- I know where I'm going, I'm just not quite sure yet how to get there lol. Anyway, thanks for reading <3 You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.saintedevote.tumblr.com) as well.


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